The flowers are still beautiful. The market has vanished.
In the fields of Tixtla, Guerrero, the marigolds that once marked the abundance of the Day of the Dead season now stand unharvested, a quiet testament to how tradition and livelihood can erode together. Over fifteen years, a convergence of violence, pandemic, floods, and cheaper imported flowers has reduced a once-thriving regional flower trade by seventy percent, leaving some 500 agricultural workers without the seasonal income that once sustained their families through the year. The cempasúchil still blooms, but the buyers have stopped coming — and in their absence, a way of life is quietly disappearing.
- Marigold prices have collapsed nearly in half — from 250 pesos per bunch to as little as 120 — while the cost of seeds, chemicals, and labor has not moved, leaving farmers absorbing losses during the one season that was supposed to make the year whole.
- The intermediary trucks that once lined up to carry flowers to municipalities across Guerrero have simply stopped arriving, stranding the harvest in fields and market stalls with no wholesale buyers in sight.
- Fifteen years of compounding shocks — insecurity, COVID-19, flooding, and a flood of cheaper, less fragrant Chinese imports — have eroded the regional trade until only local buyers in Tixtla and Chilpancingo remain.
- The land itself tells the story: cultivated flower fields have shrunk to just 30 hectares, ejido agricultural ground is being converted to housing, and 500 workers face a season that can no longer cover food, clothing, or basic family needs.
- The municipal government has turned to social media to promote local flowers, but farmers know that digital outreach cannot replace the wholesale networks that have vanished, and the gesture, however sincere, has produced minimal results.
En los campos de Tixtla, Guerrero, el cempasúchil que debería estar llenando los mercados en vísperas del Día de Muertos permanece sin cosechar. Los intermediarios que antes llegaban en camiones dejaron de venir. Las flores se quedan en los surcos y en los puestos del mercado local, sin compradores.
Juan Carlos Morales Avilés recuerda cuando un manojo de cempasúchil se vendía a 250 pesos. Este año apenas alcanza los 120 o 150. La aritmética es despiadada: semillas, agroquímicos, mano de obra, preparación de la tierra — nada de eso ha bajado de precio. Lo que sí cambió fue el precio que reciben los productores y la disposición de los compradores a aparecer.
Durante generaciones, la temporada de flores del Día de Muertos funcionó como una especie de bono para los cerca de 500 trabajadores agrícolas de la región. Era el ingreso que permitía recuperar los costos de producción y todavía dejar algo para comida, ropa, calzado. Ese acuerdo tácito entre la tierra y las familias se está deshaciendo.
Hace quince años comenzó el declive. Camiones de Hidalgo y otros estados llegaban a comprar. Compradores de Chilapa, Chilpancingo, Arcelia y Teloloapan hacían de la cosecha una especie de fiesta colectiva. Los campos eran espectaculares: alfombras de amarillo, blanco y rojo intenso que se extendían por el paisaje. Luego llegó la inseguridad, después la pandemia, después las inundaciones, y finalmente las flores chinas — más baratas, menos duraderas, sin aroma — que terminaron por desplazar al mercado local.
La magnitud del colapso se lee en la tierra misma. De vastos campos, solo quedan unas 30 hectáreas sembradas con flores. Las tierras ejidales que antes producían cempasúchil están siendo ocupadas por viviendas, porque la agricultura ya no es redituable. El municipio de Tixtla ha intentado ayudar promoviendo las flores en redes sociales, pero los productores saben que eso no puede sustituir a los compradores mayoristas que desaparecieron. En quince años, las ventas cayeron 70 por ciento. Las flores siguen siendo hermosas. El mercado para ellas, sencillamente, se evaporó.
In the fields around Tixtla, Guerrero, the marigolds that should be flooding the market right now are sitting unharvested. It is late October, just days before Day of the Dead, when these flowers—cempasúchil, terciopelo, tapayola, margarita—are supposed to move in volume to altars and gravesites across the state. Instead, the intermediaries who once came in trucks have stopped coming. The flowers remain in the fields and at the local market, unsold.
Juan Carlos Morales Avilés, a flower producer, remembers when a bunch of marigolds sold for 250 pesos. This year, the same bunch brings 120 to 150 pesos. The math is brutal. Seeds cost money. Chemicals cost money. Labor costs money. The land must be cleaned and prepared. None of that has gotten cheaper. What has changed is the price farmers receive—and the willingness of buyers to show up at all.
For agricultural workers in Tixtla, the Day of the Dead flower season has always functioned as something like a bonus. It was not just income; it was the income that allowed families to recover their production costs and still have money left over for food, for clothes, for shoes. Hundreds of farmers—around 500 in total—depended on these weeks to make the year work. That was the arrangement for generations. Now that arrangement is collapsing.
Fifteen years ago, the decline began. Trucks from Hidalgo and other states would arrive to buy flowers. Buyers came from Chilapa, Chilpancingo, Arcelia, Teloloapan. The harvest was a kind of festival—many hands, many families, good money. Dozens of large trucks would line up to load the production and carry it to municipalities across the region. The fields themselves were spectacular: vast carpets of yellow, white, and deep red blooms stretching across the landscape.
Then came insecurity. Then came the pandemic. Then came flooding. And then came cheaper flowers from China—species that do not last as long, that do not smell as strong, but that cost less. The combination proved fatal to the local market. The intermediaries stopped coming. The buyers from other cities stopped arriving. Now the flowers that do sell go only to people in Tixtla and Chilpancingo. The regional trade has essentially vanished.
The scale of the collapse is visible in the land itself. Where vast fields once grew, only about 30 hectares are now planted with flowers. The number of workers has shrunk proportionally. And the ejido land that once produced these blooms is being invaded by housing—families building homes on what used to be agricultural ground because agriculture no longer pays.
The municipal government of Tixtla has tried to help, promoting the flowers through social media. The response has been minimal. Farmers acknowledge the effort but know it cannot replace the wholesale buyers who have disappeared. Over the past 15 years, sales have fallen by 70 percent. The harvest that was supposed to sustain 500 workers through the year and into the next season now barely sustains them through the week. The flowers are still beautiful. The market for them has simply evaporated.
Citas Notables
For farmers, Day of the Dead flower sales were like a teacher's year-end bonus—it helped recover production costs and feed the family, sometimes even buy clothes and shoes.— Tixtla flower producers
Years ago, dozens of large trucks would line up to load flowers and transport them to municipalities across the region. Now the intermediaries no longer come.— Agricultural workers in Tixtla
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why did the intermediaries stop coming? Was it just the Chinese flowers undercutting the price?
That was part of it, but not all. The insecurity made travel risky. The pandemic disrupted supply chains. Flooding damaged crops. The Chinese flowers were cheaper, yes—but they arrived into a market that was already fragile.
So the farmers are stuck with flowers they can't sell at a price that covers their costs.
Exactly. They've already spent the money on seeds, chemicals, labor. The flower is grown. Now it sits. They have to sell it or lose everything.
What happens to the workers when the season ends and they haven't made the money they counted on?
They don't eat as well. Their children don't get new clothes. They look for other work, but there isn't much. Some of them are already moving away.
The municipal government tried to help with social media promotion. Why didn't that work?
Because social media reaches consumers, not the wholesale buyers who used to come in trucks. Those buyers have moved their sourcing elsewhere. You can't replace a supply chain with a Facebook post.
Is there any sign this will reverse?
Not in the near term. The land itself is being converted to housing. The infrastructure of the trade—the relationships, the routes, the buyers—has been dismantled. Even if prices recovered tomorrow, there wouldn't be enough growers left to supply the old market.